P.O.W.
Location
The Invisible Tyrant.
He haunts my day’s dreams,
spits fire from his eyes; a merciless king.
He shelters Pride’s silence, and savors my pleas,
he coddles the darkness that tackles my screams;
severs them slowly, looks on- “Let them bleed.”
The king licks his lips as red seeps through stone.
The dungeon is ghostly, and I am alone.
Parched bones whither-
through cracked throat push their moans.
A chill down my spine calls Hope to its home.
Could you imagine!
A bow with no quiver-
But one day I’ll find it,
And mountains will shiver,
when the wind screams and throws me-
Wherever!
(I claim no right to, no command of the weather)
Thunder's claps will cease, to a tremulous slumber;
To nightmares untold! To fevers unnumbered!
Submit! To the Greatest!
The Great King! Whose hunger
flows through me, for one word.
He beckons:
“My child! Speak!”
To speak is to will the earth to rise!
To shout? Split my tree, in a forest of lies;
With truth like lighting pure and hot,
And humbled by a loosened knot-
When I finally crumble,
Let my boulders tumble,
Let soot be stark,
And my mountains rumble-
Before the valley I will cry.
What I would change, it cannot be seen.
Except up, through the window, in a victorious, golden stream,
that dances, makes these cobblestone walls seem serene;
as a vision of eternal ecstasy,
my Voice rides the wind to rescue me;
to unlatch the padlock, and toss the key;
I will be vulnerable, the prisoner free!